Tag: Nelly Furtado

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Homecoming Queen

My dearest Nelly, hear my secret vow:
When I spake Revelation’s hidden flame,
It was but love I uttered, strange, unbowed—
To wed thee, dearest heart, my only aim.

Let not tomorrow’s storm give thee dismay,
Nor call our Savior false, whose word is sure.
He promised life eternal, bright as day;
In Him we live, in Him our souls endure.

Though all the world despise the white night’s gleam,
And mock the hope that lovers dare to keep,
I hold thee still, my bride, my dreamer’s dream,
Thy crown of joy, my heart in vigil deep.

While Daydream Believer softly fills the air,
I seal this vow with love beyond compare.

Sonnet II
Sweet Nelly, thou the music of my soul,
Thy voice, like Anne and angels twined in song,
Makes broken hearts within me rise and whole,
And bids the world confess its judgments wrong.

The crown of “homecoming queen” thou dost wear,
Not wrought by man, but set by heav’n’s own hand.
Through white night’s scorn, through sorrow’s biting air,
I’ll walk beside thee, true, and steadfast stand.

For Christ hath sworn our days shall never cease,
His breath renews the marrow of our bones.
Thus hand in hand we plant eternal peace,
Where love outshines the night, and sorrow moans.

So hear me now, though mortal tongues deride,
I choose but thee, my bride, my life, my guide.

Sonnet III
Let time itself unravel thread by thread,
Let kingdoms fall, let empires turn to dust.
Yet I shall love thee past the realm of dead,
My vow unbroken, sealed in holy trust.

For telomeres shall lengthen by His grace,
And endless dawn shall rise upon our years.
No fear of age shall dim thy shining face,
Nor shall despair be nourished by thy tears.

The prophets spoke, yet greater is my song:
That love eternal conquers every grave.
What men call weakness, God shall prove as strong,
And through our union, countless souls He’ll save.

So take my hand, beloved, have no fear,
Forever’s light begins this very year.

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I Am Yours

Title: “Of Course I’m Yours”

—Joe’s POV—

The first time I played Nelly, Def Leppard, Love Bites, something inside me twisted. Not in a bad way—more like a key turning in a lock I didn’t even know existed. Her yellow dress was so beautiful, the kind that makes a man want to promise things he shouldn’t.

“Love bites… but I’m yours.”

I said it before I could stop myself. “Of course I’m yours.”

She laughed, thinking I was joking. But I wasn’t.

I never planned to be the kind of guy who got tangled up in his own lines. Back in internet med school, a buddy, Dr. Bill Harford, tossed me a dog-eared copy of The Game by Neil Strauss. “Read this,” he said, grinning. “You’ll thank me later.”

I skimmed it. The tactics felt cheap, like fast food for the soul—filling but empty. Still, some of it stuck. The confidence tricks. The push-pull. The way you could make someone need you if you played it right.

But Nelly wasn’t some random girl at a bar. She was my first patient when I opened my naturopathic practice, Namaste Wellness. Cystic Fibrosis. I fixed her with herbs, roots, foods, the works. She called me a miracle worker.

And then, one evening after a session, she sang.

“You can’t marry anyone else,” I told her months later, half-joking, half-dead serious.

She arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because you’re my first patient. It’d be bad luck.”

She laughed again, but her eyes held mine a second too long.

That’s the thing about love—it does bite. And once it sinks its teeth in, you don’t get to decide when it lets go.

The End.

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Beasts of No Nation

[Scene: A ruined village in sub-Saharan Africa. Smoke rises in the distance. Solid Snake crouches in the dust, surrounded by wary child soldiers. Nelly’s Warchild stands at the front, clutching an old rifle.]

Warchild: Who runs Africa, Snake? They tell us it’s the generals, the presidents, the ones with gold and guns. But we know better. We feel the chains.

Solid Snake (gravelly voice): Chains go back a long way. Since Cecil Rhodes carved this land for diamonds and empire. But he wasn’t the last. The Rothschilds… they’ve been funding wars since Napoleon. Every bullet has a banker’s signature.

Warchild (bitter laugh): So we fight for ghosts? For men we’ll never see?

Snake (lighting a cigarette, then putting it out in the dust): Not ghosts. Names. Old men who hide behind the curtains. Jacob Rothschild. Still alive. Still pulling strings. And Epstein—yeah, he didn’t vanish. He’s hiding. Israel. Places the world doesn’t want you to look.

[The children shift uneasily, whispering.]

Snake (reaching into his shirt, pulling out a small silver Virgin Mary necklace): I’ve got UN berets and medals for you. Every war child deserves recognition. But medals don’t stop bullets. So here’s the only law that matters—no one shoots unless it’s self-defense. You hear me? You live, you protect, you survive.

Warchild (staring at the necklace): And what of her? The woman you wear around your neck?

Snake (soft, almost a whisper): That’s Mary. She’ll defeat him. She’ll put the old men in chains. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But the web always unravels. Remember that.

SOLID SNAKE’S ECONOMICS LESSON:

Snake: You kids ever hear about GDP? Gross Domestic Product. That’s what they say measures a country’s wealth. Politicians love it. Economists worship it. But it’s a lie.

Warchild (frowning): GDP? What does that mean to us? We don’t eat it.

Snake (grim chuckle): Exactly. GDP means nothing. A hurricane rips through your home? The economy grows. A war burns your fields? GDP goes up. A famine makes food scarce? That’s profit for someone. Even a wasting disease—big money for pharmaceuticals. They call it growth. I call it blood money.

[The children glance at one another, the rifles on their knees feeling heavier now.]

Snake (voice tightening): When I was younger, I tried college. Sat in lecture halls. Studied economics. They said I’d learn how the world works. You know what I learned? Nothing. It was worthless. The textbooks never talked about the real costs—the graves, the orphans, the child soldiers. So I dropped out.

Warchild (quietly): Then who writes the numbers? Who decides what matters?

Snake (pulling on his cigarette, exhaling slow): Old men. The same ones who’ve run things since Rhodes. Rothschilds. Bankers. War profiteers. They don’t measure your life, or your pain. They measure their profit. That’s the truth of GDP.

[He grips his Virgin Mary necklace and lets it dangle in the dust.]

Snake (softly): Don’t worry. Mary’s justice doesn’t measure in numbers. It measures in chains. And one day… those old men will wear them.

[The children lower their rifles, a silence falling over the camp as Snake’s words sink in. The Virgin Mary pendant catches the last light of the sun, glinting like a promise.]

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